


Soothing the Fury

by Starlithorizon



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Post Reichenbach, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-27 00:59:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlithorizon/pseuds/Starlithorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes home to misery and accusations, but eventually, the pair find forgiveness for themselves and each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soothing the Fury

"How can you possibly believe I don't care?" he gasped out. He sounded wounded, knife-to-the-gut-and-bleeding-out wounded. "I walked the earth for you!"

"I killed a man to keep you safe," John ground out. The words fell like sand from his mouth.

"I've killed dozens!"

Sherlock watched with a hollow satisfaction as Jobn blanched. The good doctor knew, of course, but he hated hearing the confirmation. It was terrible knowledge.

Sherlock wasn't done, though.

"I've killed so many just to make sure you were safe. To be sure that, when I returned, you would be there. To be sure that I could come home to you. I went through hell to keep you alive, John. I'm not asking you to forgive me their deaths, or to simper and be grateful. I am simply telling you because I want you to know."

John sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. God, to be told something like this—it was almost too much to bear.

It halfway sounded like worship. He was of a mind that Sherlock had made John's protection his religion, and there was something a bit terrifying to the thought. How could he ever hope to deserve a friend like that? John did not deserve Sherlock, did he?

"Those three years were the worst in my life," John breathed. Nearly every night was either sleepless or studded with horrible nightmares. The war had left him alone, allowed the fall/impact/blood to take over.

He lived with a girlfriend, later fiancée, for two years. She broke things off three months before the wedding when her job took her to America. When he returned to 221B, knowing in his bones that nowhere else was home, he was struck quite forcefully with the resounding emptiness sulking through the flat.

Three years of nightmare-memories, desolate silence in the flat, mind-numbing clinic work, a returning limp, and near-crushing grief. They were the worst three years in humanity.

Sherlock was quiet for a long moment after John's pronouncement. Guilt and misery flashed across his face alternately, leaving him looking both younger and older than he was. There were lines that hadn't been there before he left, carved into his skin by a heartless hand. Scars, pink and white and red, were visible in the bared skin of his hands and arms. John knew that Sherlock was covered in the jagged lines. There were three wounds on his haggard face, only one of which was from John's blow to one of his stupid cheekbones. The hollows under his eyes were nearly bruised black from sleeplessness.

These three years had taken a tremendous toll on his friend.

"They were the worst of mine," Sherlock finally whispered. For a brief moment, John thought about what Sherlock probably went through. The scars had to come from something. But when he looked up at the haunted detective, he instantly knew that he wasn't referring to any of that.

The realization that struck him violently in the ribs was that Sherlock had stalked the shadows of the world to keep him safe. Sherlock had lived with the knowledge that John thought he was dead. Hell,it was as simple and painful of Sherlock living for three years without John by his side.

There was a hollow ache in his chest at this.

It had been three years of torture and hell, and Sherlock had come home to furious crying, a fist to the face, and horrible accusations.

John couldn't see past the tears once again his eyes, or the apologies in his throat. He lurched out of his chair and wrapped the lanky, bony, fragile man in his arms and simply held on, letting the forgiveness flood Sherlock from contact alone.

* * *

Mrs Hudson found them like that in the morning, sunlight gilding everything and making them something precious. She smiled fondly, draping a blanket over their shoulders, and sipped out of their flat without them ever waking.


End file.
